This Is All Very Meta
by Road Rhythm
Summary: Dean didn't get there first. That's okay; hell, that's the way he wanted it. He never even cared—until he stumbled over some stupid freaking fanfic about him taking Sam's virginity. Now he can't get it out of his head.


**Summary:** Dean didn't get there first. That's okay; hell, that's the way he wanted it. He never even cared—until he stumbled over some stupid freaking fanfic about him taking Sam's virginity. Now he can't get it out of his head.

**A/N:** A fill for a prompt on the spnkink_meme, where the OP wanted Dean kinking on fanfic and Sam role-playing. The formatting gets a little awkward here on FFN, I'm afraid; look to LJ or AO3 for a slightly cleaner version.

Huge thanks to my betas Verucasalt123 and Applegeuse for whipping this into postable shape. It had been moldering on my hard drive for months before them.

None of the fanfic "excerpts," summaries, titles, or author names in here are drawn from actual fics. Any similarities are accidental, and absolutely no specific fics or authors are being deliberately lampooned (except me). All fun poked is poked with love.

Um. That sounded wrong.

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><p>: : :<p>

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><p>Once he knew it was out there, it was impossible not to read it. The fiction fans wrote for the <em>Supernatural<em> books was a mixed bag; some was awful, some was hilariously awful, some of it was actually pretty good, and a lot of it was neither here nor there. Most of it was about him and Sam screwing each other.

One thing it all had in common, though, was that Dean couldn't stop looking at it. Yeah, it was bizarre and embarrassing on levels he couldn't fully articulate to read porn (_read_ porn?) about himself, even when it might otherwise have been kind of hot. Yeah, the stuff tended to paint an overly romantic picture of his and Sam's relationship (silk panties and shotguns, yes. Weddings in the afterlife, no). Yeah, the authors had a lousy sense of characterization sometimes (Dean crying his way through sex? Come on, that had only happened once). But he just couldn't help himself. It was compelling in the way that train wrecks or those bacne videos on YouTube were.

Mostly, anyway. He'd pretty well lost his taste for it while Sam was in Hell.

Then Sam had come back, everything had broken down with Lisa, and for a long time, he and Sam had been in limbo, neither one sure what the other wanted. Neither one sure what he himself wanted, probably. Dean still went out and got laid when he felt like it, but he had gotten accustomed to the companionship of a steady relationship, first with Sam, then with Lisa.

He tried to pretend that he didn't miss it, to slide back into his old role of horn dog extraordinaire and pretend everything was as it had been, back before… just before. He pretended as much for himself as for Sam, who didn't really seem to be buying his Peter Pan act anyway. But he was getting older, and he did miss it. He missed having someone to lie next to at night, even if it was incest and they sometimes beat the crap out of each other. He missed kissing someone and having it mean more than "let's get out of this bar."

The fanfic was no substitute, but it was something to hang onto. It wasn't jerk-off fodder, but it gave him a kind of escape the need for which he couldn't explain even to himself. And, as he'd already admitted to himself, some of it was pretty hot.

: : :

When he and Sam eventually picked up where they'd left off, Dean laid off the fanfic. What did he need stories for when he had the real thing? True, it would have been nice to fantasize that none of the crap with Cas and Raphael was happening, or that Sam didn't have a crack in his mind the size of the San Andreas fault. By and large, though, life was better than Dean had dared to hope for in a long time. He had Sam back. Heaven could go screw itself. Bobby and Sam seemed to have made it up, and if Sam would just stop angsting over things that he hadn't even done, he'd be holding his head up high again. They had paid their fucking dues, the way Dean saw it, and if he had to give up Ben and Lisa, at least he could get back to doing what he was actually good at and maybe make them a safer world in the process.

So he really had no excuse when he found himself typing the address for a fic archive into the browser, other than "It's a better vice than alcoholism." It had been a while since he'd read any and he'd always wiped the history, so it took him a couple tries to get the address right. The page came up with a particularly garish picture at the top—a mash-up of covers from the books bordered in electric blue—and he glanced guiltily over his shoulder. Then he felt like a frigging moron, because he was in a motel room and he was alone.

He clicked the link at the top.

_**Recently Added**_

Apparently Chuck's reemergence from seclusion had given the _Supernatural_ fandom a shot in the arm. Fifty new stories had been posted within the last week alone. Dean started skimming the entries without any real sense of what he was looking for. Maybe he'd read some curtain!fic, there was always lots of that.

_**In the arms of an Angel**_

Title capitalized incorrectly, Dean noted. He passed it by with a punitive stab of the pagedown key, and then was doubly glad he was alone. Sam could never, ever know about his SPaG hang-ups.

_**Caged Heat**_

_**Summary:**__ When Sam is turned into a were wolf he claims Dean for his mate. Deans heart belongs to Sam but will he survive the great Muster Of The Werewolves and the blood ceremonies that happen there ? WINCEST Please R&R_

He scrolled past. Werewolves were more Sam's thing.

_**Wake Me Up Inside**_

_**Summary:**__ Abused by an alcoholic John since his mother's death, Dean has retreated far into himself. He meets Sam, a handsome stranger he has a strange affinity with, and John locks him away to keep them apart. What will happen when Sam is Turned and inherits the mysteries and powers of the ancient race of Vampires? AU Wincest but unrelated_

"Abused by—" Dean uttered a string of choice profanity and scrolled past. Bullshit. Fucking bullshit. Besides, he wasn't exactly on great terms with vampires as a class, these days. They reminded him of pretty much everything he was on this stupid site to forget. Plus they kind of smelled like cheese.

_**Fly Away**_

_**Summary:**__ When Sam is diagnosed with cancer, Dean is left with one truth: he doesn't know how to live without his brother. But he has to, because he promised._

_**Warnings:**__ deathfic_

Dean back-buttoned so hard that he nearly broke the key.

_**Dark As My Heart**_

_**Summary:**__ When Sam and Dean meet a fellow hunter at her parents funeral they battle to keep her safe but no one knows why demons are after Silken. Can she save the brothers or will her dark secret consume them OFC ch3 up will post the next chappie when I get 10 reviews!_

_"'Silken'?"_ Dean asked the laptop incredulously.

_**Waiting for You**_

_**Summary:**__ At seventeen, Sam is all grown up. Dean can't help but notice.. especially when he opens the door at the exact wrong time._

_**Genre:**__ pre-series, first time_

He paused. He didn't know why; the title wasn't particularly arresting, and the summary wasn't particularly well written. The ellipsis only had two dots, for God's sake. Yet his cursor was hovering over the link. He seemed to be clicking on it, in fact.

He skimmed the opening paragraphs desultorily. Sam's teenaged angst, Sam's teenaged hormones, blah, blah, blah. He'd gotten enough of those when they'd actually been happening. Then the story switched to Dean's point-of-view: Dean coming home while John was out; Dean letting himself into their rent-by-the-month dump; Dean ignoring the loud TV; Dean walking straight into their bedroom room without knocking. Sam stretched out on the bed.

It was all probable enough, except that it had never happened. Not the last part.

_He's a long spill of tawny limbs, coltish, straining with frustration and energy with no place to go. No place to go but down to his prick, red and swollen in his fist. Sam's head is thrown back, his teeth clenched, and his eyes fly open when Dean opens the door._

_And then he comes._

Dean stared at the screen. No; that, at least, had never happened. As fucked up as they'd been (were, would continue to be, liked being), he'd never actually spied on Sam in the act, never actually perved on his kid brother before he was legal. Not until after Stanford, in fact. By the time Dean had been asking Sam, _"Please_ tell me you've done this before," he'd been relieved to hear, "Yes, get the fuck on with it." Sam had had the chance to form some normal relationships and have some normal sex, and Dean had wanted that for him.

At the time, he hadn't allowed himself to think about what he'd wanted for himself. He was thinking about it now.

_Dean moves forward, drawn as if by magnetic force. "Sammy," he whispers._

_Sam blushes. The rosy tint looks unspeakable across the gold of his skin. He wriggles a bit under Dean's gaze, but he doesn't try to cover himself._

Sam, blushing? The idea was far too ridiculous to be making Dean shift in his chair.

_Dean pulls his shirt off, unbuckles his belt and kicks his jeans away. Sam watches him the whole time, eyes gone wide. When Dean slides into the twin bed beside him, he hears Sam's breath hitch and it's all he can do to bite back a groan. Sam's eyes flutter shut when Dean puts a tentative hand on his stomach, and his spent cock, impossibly, throbs and starts to fill._

_"Wow, Sammy," Dean says. He catches Sam's chin in his fingers when he tries to turn away. "No, no, it's OK." He grins. "Actually, it's downright impressive."_

_Hesitantly, Sam smiles back a little. He looks wrecked and ruined like this, hair rucked into an untidy nimbus, cheeks flushed, boxers pushed down and tangled around his thighs; yet at the same time untouchable. He looks like a fallen fucking angel. He looks just like Dean's baby brother, more vulnerable than he's ever been. He looks completely alien and lethal, he looks like something new._

"Fuck's sake. Go write for Hallmark," Dean said. Seriously, who wrote this crap? He had an idea that he was going to close the page and get back to work, but he was scrolling down, instead. He kept doing that, and it was ridiculous, and he needed to have some kind of intel by the time Sam got back, and—

_"What if Dad comes back?" Sam whispers, looking up at Dean with fear and arousal warring on his face._

_Dean bites his lip. "He won't."_

_"But what if he does?"_

_Dean makes himself say it. "It's up to you. Your choice. It has to be your call, Sammy."_

_Sam ducks his head for a long moment. When he looks up, Dean is taken aback by the fierce heat in his eyes. "Fuck me," he says._

Improbable. Stupid. Stupidly improbable. Sam didn't say things like that. Well, he did all the time, pretty much verbatim, but not with _fierce heat_ in his eyes—well—not like—oh, fuck it.

_Dean knows this is a bad idea. This is a desperately, horribly bad idea. Because he wants this so badly it hurts, wants it in a way he's never wanted just sex, doesn't know if he can live without it once he's had it, and Sam has always been leaving him. Sam's always been questioning and restive and pining for normal, and nothing about screwing around with your brother is normal._

_But Dean says none of this, and he already knows he's not going to stop. He holds himself over Sam where he lies panting, pupils blown with desire and just a little fear, and slowly Dean reaches out and slides one hand up Sam's thigh to cover his erection._

_Touching Sam. He's actually _touching Sam._ Oh, God._

_Sam makes a needy, incoherent noise, and Dean steals it from his mouth. He seals his lips over Sam's and works that sweet mouth open with short little stabs of his tongue, coaxing out those amazing sounds and drinking them down. Long fingers come up to clutch at Dean's sides, and Dean breaks the kiss to gasp. He drops Sam's dick to hold his head while he grinds down into him, the heat of Sam's erection pressing against his own through the boxers Dean's still wearing._

_Sam whimpers. "Dean, please. Please, I can't— I don't want to— Please, not like this. Want you."_

Dean abandoned any pretense that he wasn't reading this thing. He unzipped his fly, reached into his boxers, and wrapped one hand around his cock.

It had been a long time since Dean had felt anything more than cursory shame over anything to do with fucking Sam and, if he were completely honest with himself, the last traces he did feel just made it hotter, wronger, better. He'd never asked, but he'd bet his car that Sam was the same. This time, though, there was a heavy, sick twist in his gut when he stroked himself. He felt dirty. He felt so painfully aroused he couldn't see straight.

_"Sam," Dean warns, "it's your first time. Maybe… maybe we should just keep it simple."_

Ellipsis was right this time, at least. Not that Dean had been planning to stop jerking off if it hadn't been.

_Sam picks up his chin. "No," he said stubbornly. Then doubt and incipient horror appear on his face. "That is—I mean—unless you don't want—"_

_NO. Sam cannot think that Dean doesn't want him. That is unacceptable. Dean takes Sam's wrist in his hand and guides him down to wrap his fingers around Dean through his boxers. Sam swallows. "I want," Dean says, deliberately, forcefully._

For the first time in a very, very long time, Dean let himself wonder what it might have been like if he'd been Sam's first. He imagined being invited in, and he imagined crossing the line to accept. It would have been an adrenaline rush, maybe even more of one than when they'd collided after Stanford in the wake of Sam's grief and John's mind games. It would have been heady, everything enhanced by that thrill of danger: being an adrenaline junkie was in the job description, and for all the times Sam had tried to turn his back on hunting, deep, deep down, he'd turned out to be even more of one than Dean.

It would have been cramped. It probably would have been dingy. If it had happened in the run-down farmhouse they'd rented outside of Bloomington, as Dean was imagining while he read, they'd have been under a colored quilt that smelled faintly of mothballs, in an attic room where the roof sloped down and the wooden floor collected dust bunnies like tumbleweeds. If it had been in the summer, it probably would have been way too hot. If it had been in the winter, it probably would have been way too cold. Then Sam would have curled into him, seeking warmth as Dean settled over his body.

What would his skin have tasted like? Sam was always quiet in bed, near silent, had been for as long as they'd been screwing. Would he have been the same way all those years ago, back when he was still young and unguarded? Or would he have been mouthier, telling Dean what he wanted and letting him hear his moans?

Dean's hand sped up on his cock. Images in his head were commingling with the text on the screen, and he let them.

_"Just do it, Dean." Sam's voice is practically a groan._

_Dean soothes a hand over Sam's belly. "Relax, Sammy. We've got time. Gonna make this good for you." He adds more lube and slips a second finger in alongside his first._

Maybe Sam would've let Dean suck him off, first. Maybe he'd have let Dean finger him open and slide in while he was still dazed and breathing hard. Maybe he'd have gotten it up again after, his cock going from soft to hard between their bodies with teenaged drive.

_"Mine," Dean gasps as he eases inside. It echoes so loud in his head that he doesn't even know he's said it out loud._

_Sam whimpers. "Yeah, Dean, yours. And you're mine."_

Would Sam have let him leave a mark? Would Sam—Dean's cock twitched hard in his grip—have marked _him?_ Would he have bitten down on Dean's neck like the overwrought coil of energy he'd been all the time back then?

_Tight. It's a cliché, but it's all Dean can think about…._

He would have been. God knew that stick he carried up his ass hadn't done much to loosen him up even now.

_"You okay?" Dean pants._

_Sam looks overwhelmed. At Dean's question, though, his face goes mulish. "Harder."_

_The word makes Dean snap his hips forward hard once before he gets himself back under control. "No, Sammy. Come on, come for me, let me take care of you…."_

Dean worked himself harder, flexing his fingers around the base shaft and twisting his foreskin around the crown.

_"Dean, I love you."_

He came.

There followed a couple of minutes of fumbling with tissues and the desperate hope that he hadn't gotten come on the laptop anywhere that he'd missed, because Sam would _kill_ him. Intermixed with the fumbling was the general disbelief that he'd just gotten off to fanfic. Fanfic about himself. Hell, something Becky might have written.

Dean did a final inspection and was just about to close the window and wipe the internet history when he caught sight of a line of text after the "~*FINIS*~" at the bottom of the page. It read, _Crossposted to LJ comm bottom_sammy._

Bottom_sammy proved, as foreshadowed, to be full of stories about Sammy bottoming. A little exploration gave Dean a general sense of how to navigate the pages. There was a list of affiliates, a front page full of recent submissions tagged by content, and a list of tags in the sidebar. There was a _sam/dean_ tag. There were fanart and fanfic and genre tags. And about halfway down, there was a _kink: first time_ tag.

Dean memorized the address, wiped the internet history, deleted all their cookies, dumped the cache for good measure, and had his face buried in a book by the time Sam got back an hour later.

"Hey," Sam said, dumping a box of what Dean was pretty sure were decapitated cats on the table, "find anything?"

Dean cleared his throat and snapped his book closed. "Nope. Nothing."

: : :

It wasn't like he was obsessed. The idea had stuck with him, he could admit that, but _obsessed_ was a strong word.

There were a lot of Dean-deflowering-Sam stories. Some of them actually called it "deflowering," but that was what the back button was for. A lot of them suffered from the same purple prose as the first one he'd stumbled across, some of them even worse. He knew they did, because he read them anyway.

One had Sam, eighteen in the summer before he left for Stanford, seducing Dean with popsicles. Several of them started off with Dean walking in on Sam masturbating, or vice versa. There were a number where one of them sprouted wings (Jesus _fuck,_ like either of them would find that arousing at this point), ten or twenty where they both got drunk and fumbled their way over the line, and a few where Sam's first time somehow managed to involve elaborate bondage despite John being on the other side of the wall. There was also one where they got between the sheets under the influence of alcohol and Dean let a teenaged Sam fuck him. Sam came quickly, astonishment painted over his face. Then they both fell asleep, woke up to a thunderstorm, and Sam rode Dean, head thrown back, hair plastered to his forehead in the humidity.

Dean might have read that one more than once.

He had to pull up the websites when Sam was off on an errand, if he was to have enough time to read, maybe jerk off—which he didn't always; he was surprised by how often he just read them—and close everything in the browser again. For people who lived in each other's pockets, however, they spent a pretty good chunk of the free time they did have apart. More than Dean had ever realized before, really, which explained how they hadn't actually killed each other yet.

They also had an unspoken rule about giving a heads-up if one of them was going to be coming back early, in case one of them had a hookup. Wasn't like they'd ever been exclusive. Apparently Sam didn't think the rule applied at eleven o'clock in the morning, though, because Dean froze like their last HP when Sam came through the door.

"Found a guy at a truck stop who had some interesting stories," Sam said cheerfully. "Might be a hunt in—"

He stopped. Panic was plain on Dean's face, and Sam tilted his head, smelling blood. "Dude, what are you looking at on the internet that can make _you_ embarrassed?"

Just like that, he stepped up behind Dean to where he could see the screen. Dean still could have closed the window, but he stayed frozen for just a second too long. As Sam leaned over, he sat, rigid, distantly thankful that at least he hadn't been whacking off.

In the reflection at the top of the screen, Dean saw Sam's eyebrows fly up to his hairline. "Is this Chuck's fans' internet stuff? Holy crap, they're still at it."

Dean forced a grin onto his face. "Yeah, I know, right? You wouldn't believe what they come up with."

"Oh, God, seriously?" Sam said, and Dean knew he'd caught sight of the title. "Tainted Love" was the title of this particular masterwork, and Dean had to admit that it was a little on the flowery side.

Sam frowned, like the weirdness was just catching up with him properly. "What're you doing reading this stuff?"

Dean shrugged and hoped it looked nonchalant. "Got bored. Figured I'd look through some of the websites to see if Chuck has put anything new out."

Sam stared at him. Then he broke out in a grin. "Oh, my God, you're actually reading this."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Fuck off."

"Eloquent, Dean. Let me see."

Dean tried to close the window, but Sam made a grab for his hands. There was a brief scuffle for the laptop that ended in Sam getting a good enough eyeful that there wasn't any point in risking the computer further. Maybe, just maybe, Dean had wanted him to get it.

Sam leaned against the table next to Dean and squinted at the screen. Dean had a good enough idea of what was on it to read even from this angle.

_Dean laid Sam out on the bedspread, positioning those long, golden limbs and looking until Sammy started to squirm._

_"Isn't this place a little expensive for us?" Sam queried, tentatively._

_"I wanted... Your first time should be someplace special Sammy" Dean said._

Sam snorted. "I lost my virginity when I was sixteen in the back of Carl Lawson's car. That virginity, anyway," he amended.

Dean stared. "You lost your virginity to Carl Lawson?"

Sam glanced at him in surprise. He tucked his hair behind his ear, his ultimate tell for when he'd caught on to the fact that Dean was pissed off but was trying to play innocent. "Well, yeah."

"He was _my_ age! My _current_ age!" Dean's voice was tight.

Sam dropped the innocent act and just glared at him. "Oh, get over yourself. At sixteen I was packing two knives and holy water. If he'd tried anything, I could've filleted him."

"He did try something." Dean barely even tried to rein in his anger. "He—in the back of his fucking—"

"You lost your virginity in the back of the Impala," Sam said, like he thought he was being reasonable.

"That's different, Sam! That's our home. Carl Lawson drove a broken-down Pinto and was a sleazy son of a bitch."

Sam wrinkled his nose in a what-the-fuck expression that had stayed so unchanged over the years that it hit Dean like a kick in the solar plexus. "You never thought he was sleazy before. You always said he was a good guy."

Dean resisted the urge to put his fist through something. "That was before I found out he molested my kid brother!"

Sam actually threw up his hands. "I don't get it. This was years ago. You don't think some shit's gone down lately that's kind of a bigger deal than my first lay with a guy? Anyway, you knew I wasn't exactly a blushing virgin when we started this. What's your problem?"

Dean ignored the last question. "I always assumed you did it at Stanford. _That_ part, I mean. Not in the back of a thirty-year-old's goddamned station wagon."

"Nailed Cara Richley in her backyard when I was fifteen," Sam said practically.

"That's different."

"How?"

Dean stayed sullenly silent.

Sam huffed and rolled his eyes. "It doesn't mean anything. You're the one who told me that in the first place, remember?"

He remembered. He remembered giving Sam the _useful_ talk after John had given him the Talk, the one where he imparted the elder-brotherly advice about how to actually score. He remembered telling Sam that the faster he could rid himself of his V-card, the better, because experience was what counted. He supposed that went for guys as much as girls. But he'd never meant Carl fucking Lawson.

"Should have," he said. He hadn't meant to say it out loud.

Sam blinked. "This is really bothering you."

Dean's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he got traction. He smoothed the moment over the way he always did. "A _Pinto,_ Sam. Of course it's bothering me."

Sam saw through that one so completely that he didn't even spare Dean a knowing look. Instead he just stood there, eyes flicking over Dean where he sat. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Oh, for— Do we really have to do this now?"

Wood scraped against cheap carpeting as Sam drew up the other chair and lowered himself into it, absently, still looking at Dean. "I never realized it would, I dunno, mean something to you," he said slowly, face still creased in a faint frown. "I mean— You left another one in the browser a while back, but I figured it was just for laughs, you know? Does it really bug you that much?"

"Yeah, all right?" Dean broke out. "It bugs me. It pisses me off that you gave it up to Carl Lawson at sixteen, and it pisses me off that when you came back brand-new and gave it up again, I didn't even know you were on the planet. It sure as _hell_ pisses me off that your real first time probably wasn't any classier than when you went looking for your first lay when you were a soulless douche!"

They both listened to the A/C run for a moment. "Oh," Sam said, quietly.

Sam laced his fingers together between his knees and stared at them. It was a posture he'd only picked up in the last few years, something new to go with the enormous, not remotely coltish figure of the man he'd grown into. He looked up. "Did you ever think about it? You know… back then?"

He had those goddamned clear, soft eyes on Dean, which had been clearer and softer ever since he'd come back from the Cage, just looking so very understanding that Dean kind of wanted to hit him. Instead he looked away. "Of course I did," he muttered.

More A/C hum. Yeah, nothing awkward about this conversation.

"I, um. I never knew," Sam said.

Dean scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "You were a teenager, Sam. Back before this"—he waved a hand between them—"all became small fry. I wanted something better for you than knowing that your brother was a sick perv, and I wasn't exactly ready to ride the incest train myself." He sighed, trying to make it sound impatient rather than weary. "Look, just forget about it. It's all in the past and it doesn't matter, anyway."

Sam was silent for so long that Dean thought he'd actually let the topic go. Then he looked up, and—

He was looking up at Dean from beneath his eyelashes. Literally from beneath lowered lashes. Dean's stomach flipped. That had to be intentional. Christ.

But all Sam said was, "So, anyway, I think I've found us a hunt."

: : :

Two weeks later, Dean keyed his way into their current motel room. He had his attention trained downward as he juggled a duffle full of clean laundry and a paper bag of drive-through, so he didn't look up until he was already kicking the door shut behind him.

He dropped their dinner on the floor.

Sam was spread out on Dean's bed—_Dean's_ bed, no less—with his boxers shoved down and his cock in his hand.

Dean's first thought was, _What the hell?_ Because Sam had known when Dean was coming back. Unlike Sam, Dean didn't just drop in early without so much as a text message, and he was more than a little confused. All those thoughts were suddenly wiped from his mind when he realized that Sam was blushing.

Sam was _blushing._

It showed high in his cheeks, dark pink that matched the crown of his erection where it peeked out of his fist. Crowley might have fucked up Sam's soul, but he'd done a hell of a job with his body. Sam had come back fresh, miraculous, all the signs of guilt and fatigue that had marked his face in the year before the Cage scrubbed away. Now, with the flush in his cheeks and his lips bitten red, he looked better than ever.

Scratch that. He looked edible.

"D-Dean!" Sam sputtered.

Dean frowned, slowly letting the duffle down. Since when the did Sam stutter? Dean took a step forward, and Sam hastily bent one leg to cover himself as his color deepened. Dean stopped short, hurt to have Sam suddenly acting like a spooked animal around him.

"Dude, it's nothing I haven't seen before," he said roughly, bending to pick up the bag of drive-through food.

Sam had a handful of the sheet over his crotch by the time Dean straightened up again. The rest of him was still buck naked and visible. If he was going for modesty, he could've done better. "Can't I get any privacy around here?" he spat.

Dean threw the paper bag down on the rickety table. "What the hell, Sam? You knew when I was coming back—"

Oh. _Oh._

Dean blinked. Sam was sitting on the bed, looking back at him with the patient, long-suffering expression of a parent with a child who wasn't terribly bright.

"Oh, shut up," Dean muttered, turning aside to hide the fact that his own face was suddenly burning hot. "Gimme a second."

He tried to get his infuriating blush under control and, when he failed at that, settled for grappling with his emotions. If Sam had run his plan past him first, Dean still would have underestimated how monumentally awkward this moment would be. Con man he admittedly was; actor he sure as hell wasn't. He had no clue how this was supposed to go. At the same time, the sudden realization that Sam would do this for him…. It was a rush.

By the time he turned around, there was apprehension on Sam's face that Dean didn't think was part of the act. It was the stimulus he needed to make himself relax, for Sam's sake. Once he started to relax, his mind started turning over the possibilities.

He let his eyes travel over Sam's figure on the bed. There was no mistaking that wall of muscle for the body of a virginal teenager, but there was an indefinable sense of something newly minted about him. It fucked with Dean's head that Hell could have that effect, but somehow, in Sam's case, it had. Sam's eyes were lowered, creating a smudge of dark lashes on cheek that should not have looked half so good on a guy who could take out Goliath. The long, pale sweep of his thigh disappeared under the sheet he was holding over his erection. Dean could see his abdomen heave with his breathing. That long, sweet neck was pale and unmarked again. All of it was being offered up to Dean.

Dean flexed his hands and crossed the small space to stand over the bed. Sam played his part to the hilt, looking back with wide eyes and the tiniest hint of a smirk hidden somewhere in the corners of his mouth.

"Shhh, it's okay, Sammy," Dean whispered.

Sam relaxed under his gaze. Dean couldn't tell whether the way some of the tension drained out of Sam's shoulders was part of the act or real, and somehow that just made it better. He felt a thrill of power that he didn't fully understand; there was only a vague, nervous sense of possibilities just within his grasp. There was nothing they couldn't do together.

Except that he couldn't think what to say next.

"Uh," Dean said, suppressing an urge to scratch his ear or shuffle his feet or something. "So, um…."

"Awkward, huh?" Sam said in a rush. He blushed again, and Dean knew that he was doing his best to hang on to his role.

Dean swept his eyes over his brother again. "It doesn't have to be," he said deliberately.

Sam bit his lip and looked away. It might have been to keep himself from laughing, but Dean had already decided that if Sam had been willing to make the effort, it wasn't going to be wasted. Dean toed off his shoes and asked, voice low, "Want a hand?"

Sam's pupils dilated, and there was no faking that. "Yeah," he breathed. "Yes, please."

A rush of blood hit Dean's groin. _Christ._ He stripped off his flannel shirt and tugged his tee over his head, standing shirtless as Sam watched with parted lips. A pang went through Dean, for the first time in months, when the familiar cool touch of his necklace on his chest never came. He wondered briefly if Sam missed it, too, if its absence was poking a hole in the fantasy for him; then Dean shucked out of his jeans and socks and turned back to the present.

Sam's fingers still held the corner of the sheet over his groin, loosely, like he'd forgotten it. Dean tugged it gently out of the way, and Sam's eyes dropped as color rose in his cheeks. He'd seen Sam naked a thousand times, but he'd never exposed him like this. Dean didn't notice until he'd started to go lightheaded that he was holding his breath.

Red and straining, Sam's cock stood out against the pallor of his belly. In fact, it looked painfully red, as if he'd been jerking himself unsuccessfully for hours. Dean could remember beating himself that raw—when he'd been seventeen. He winced in sympathy. "Having issues, Sammy?"

Sam let his head fall back in frustration. "I tried," he mumbled. "I tried, I just—I need… something else."

That little shit. He'd plagiarized that off of LadyMedusa856.

"What do you need?" Dean asked. If his voice was a little hoarse, it was only because he was playing along.

"Don't make me say it," Sam mumbled.

"I gotta, Sam." Bending, Dean carded his hand into Sam's sweaty hair, and Sam half turned into his palm. "I have to hear you say it."

Sam fixed him with a pissy look that was not part of any of the fantasy encounters Dean had read so far. "I need _you,_ okay? Fuck's sake, Dean. Don't rub it in when I'm—when I'm—"

Dean slid onto the mattress beside him and kissed him. Chastely, at first; he only pulled gently at Sam's lower lip, steadying himself with one hand on Sam's waist. For a moment, Sam stiffened under his touch. Then he kissed back, hesitant and a little sloppy. Just a little—to get Sam to be really sloppy had taken all Dean's coaxing and had definitely only happened well after he'd lost his virginity.

_Which he hasn't,_ Dean reminded himself. _Whole point here. Virgin. Virgin._

"I'll give you what you need, Sammy." His heartbeat was a weird, nervous flutter. "I'll take care of you. I always take care of you."

Sam's face clouded for a moment. The look was gone before Dean could ask about it. "I know you do." He drew in a deep breath and launched himself at Dean.

"Mmrrph!" Sam attacked his mouth, biting and licking and almost knocking Dean off the damned bed. It was the way he'd always attacked when he'd been a kid: a fast and slightly feral spring coming out of glowering silence. Dean got a grip on Sam's shoulders, pushing him gently back. "Whoa, whoa, easy, tiger. Shhh. Take it slow. We'll take it slow."

He slid one hand up to rub Sam's neck; he tried to think while he watched Sam's eyes. "I'm gonna make you feel real good," he tried.

Sam wrinkled his nose.

"Too much?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, kinda."

"Damn it," Dean muttered, dragging a hand over his mouth.

"It's fine. We'll just, you know, pick it back up. Come on."

"Virginal," Dean said severely. "Think virginal."

Sam pushed himself up on his elbows and glared at him. "I _am_ thinking virginal!"

"Think it harder!"

"You try thinking virginally after walking in on you with your bukkake porn."

"This was your idea, man."

"All right, just—just shut up a second!" Sam's hands flapped wildly around his head. Dean heard him expel a breath before he looked up. "Right," said Sam, half reasonable, half defiant. "Are we doing this, or not?"

Dean looked at him. Ten years ago, the answer would have been "or not" even if Sam had been begging, even if Dean had known Carl Lawson was waiting down the street like the pervy scumbag he was. Carl Lawson would have died bloody, of course, but that wouldn't have changed Dean's answer. Even if Dean had been reasonably certain that he'd die of arousal, he knew he would have said no.

Here was his chance to say yes.

He leaned in, kissed Sam, and guided him down with a hand on his breastbone. For a moment, Sam was rigid; then he went with it, going pliant under Dean with a tremor that Dean had to remind himself wasn't real. He had to remind himself _hard,_ because it telegraphed need straight to his cock.

Cool cotton dragged over his foot, his ankle. Sam parted his lips hesitantly under Dean's as if he didn't know quite what to do with them, and Dean slipped him a tiny bit of tongue as if he didn't know Sam liked it when Dean made him choke. No—it wasn't just that. It was better than just pretend, because Dean _wanted_ to kiss him like this. Even if his mind knew this was acting, his body didn't, and he wanted to kiss Sam with careful little licks, make sure nothing was too much, and hear his breathing ease up. He wanted to feel Sam go from overwhelmed to okay to eager.

Sam made a whimper of protest when Dean pulled back. "You've got to be sure, Sammy," he let out in a jumble, because it was what he would have said ten years ago if it had really happened. "You cannot be fucking with me on this. You can't. You don't even know, you don't— You just— You _can't."_

That was when the surreal quality of it all rolled over Dean. None of this was script, and none of it was without significance. They were having a conversation with their eighteen- and twenty-two-year-old counterparts across the gap of years, or maybe it was the other way around, and something was building somewhere in the middle between them. Time wasn't flowing right. If Dean reached out and laid a hand on Sam's cheek, he might make contact with the Sam who was still untouched in all the really important ways; and Sam's hand warm on his hip was touching a cocky, carefree Dean who hadn't walked the earth in ten years, steering him to this point.

Wide-eyed and tousled up, Sam almost did look that young again. "Okay, Dean," he said softly.

"I mean it, Sammy."

"I _know._ I know my own mind, all right? I know what I want."

Sam's eyes were glittering in the cheap sodium light. He felt it, too: this thing was off the ground.

Sam hooked his ankle over Dean's, levered up, and flipped them. Even at eighteen, Sam had had a perfectly good working knowledge of hand-to-hand combat, and it was so wrong that it got Dean the rest of the way hard. Sam crawled down the bed and shoved Dean's boxers down. Dean heard him draw a determined breath before he bent down and took Dean in his mouth.

"Fuck!" It wasn't like he hadn't known it was coming, but Sam's attack was so sudden and barbaric, sucking and licking and dragging teeth everywhere, that it was shocking anyway. Unfamiliarity more than anything was what stunned him. Sam's mouth had never felt like this.

Dean's pulse fluttered up a notch. _He'd never felt this._ It was _new._

That was the thought that had him dragging Sam's head up from his cock, breathing hard. Sam's chin was shiny with spit and the smear of precome Dean's cock left there; his eyes were wide and fragile. He was slipping into it, losing himself in that way that he'd always had some kind of drive to do. It was intoxicating to watch. Dean realized he didn't know how much of this was Sam's fantasy and how much was what Sam thought was Dean's, and it made it all so much better.

"Am I— Did I do it wrong?" Sam asked, not quite meeting his eyes.

Dean cupped Sam's cheek in his palm. "God, no. Come up here, Sammy."

Sam clambered up (fucking _hell,_ he was huge) to lie alongside Dean, mussed and looking beautifully nervous. "Do you have any idea what you look like?" Dean said—because he _could_ say it; Sam had made it possible. Because he knew it made Sam uncomfortable, too, left him feeling self-conscious and exposed. Whenever that happened, Sam would avert his face or change the subject, and Dean always wanted to grab his chin and _make_ him not hide himself. In their normal interactions, he never did, but tonight he could.

He pressed Sam flat with a hand on his sternum and hovered over him without touching. "You look like a walking wet dream, and the best part is that you don't even know it. People see you walking around all golden-boy, like a wish come true, and they want to mess you up." He smiled thinly. "'Course, they don't know that you could turn them into a grease spot before they had a chance. I'm the only one you'll let do that." The smile slipped off his face. "You going to let me mess you up?"

Sam swallowed and nodded.

"Say it, Sam. Ask me."

Little pink flick of tongue, swiping over Sam's lips, wetting them, fast, then gone. Maybe ten years ago Sam would have done it innocently, but there was no way the little bastard didn't know exactly what it did to people now. "I want you to mess me up."

Dean reached down and grasped Sam's erection. It felt familiar in his hand, good; he let his eyes flutter shut and tried to imagine wrapping his fingers around it for the first time. There'd _been_ a first time, of course. It had been so quick and brutal, though, that Dean didn't really remember how Sam's cock had felt in his hand, and his had hardly been the first hand to begin with.

He flexed his fingers over the shaft, feeling the shape of it, the blood flooding in under his fingers. Sam bit his lip with an almost pained look. Dean knew that an actual teenaged encounter would never have gotten this far, but this wasn't about verisimilitude. He imagined that he was the first one Sam had ever let hold him like this, and Dean's stomach gave a pleasant, dopey flip.

Sam gasped out loud when Dean gave him a few hard strokes. "No, please. Not like that."

Dean pulled back a little. "Seriously, man? You suck at subtlety."

Sam just smirked. "What do you want from teenaged hormones?"

Dean rolled his eyes and started to move his hand down past Sam's balls out of habit. Then he caught what looked like real apprehension in Sam's eyes. He didn't know what that was about—maybe Sam was better at subtlety than he'd thought—but it drew him back into the moment. He rested one hand against Sam's side.

"It's easier on your front," he said, mouth suddenly dry.

Sam went, turning under gentle pushes and hands positioning him carefully. The lines of his body were tight as Dean rolled him onto his front and got a pillow under his hips. Dean thought his tension probably had more to do with Dean's tenderness than the virgin act. Sam was always all teeth and collisions when they fucked, and oddly shy whenever they did anything more intimate. All the more reason to keep it up, the way Dean saw it.

He dragged his fingertips down Sam's side and listened to the satisfying hitch of breath. He knew Sam felt a hundred times more exposed this way than when they did it face-to-face. They were both hunters; they didn't go around leaving their backs open, and Sam would hardly ever let Dean pin him down and open like this. The power of it was heady, almost frightening.

Dean leaned down, blew softly across Sam's spine, and watched, entranced, as Sam flinched and tried to still himself. It occurred to Dean that this was awesome. All the blushing and shyness and, you know, cuddling of virgin-sex, none of the pain and holding back.

He put his mouth to Sam's ear. "Still got that tube of KY you stole off me, Sammy?"

Sam went rigid, and Dean _knew_ he was remembering that. "Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, it's—it's in the pillow."

Not like Dean didn't know.

When Dean popped the cap on the lube, Sam's arms tensed around the pillow he was holding. Dean frowned. He knew Sam was going for realism and all, but there were limits.

He laid one hand on Sam's hip, warm, soothing. "Dude, relax. I've got you. We can stop whenever you want."

"Don't be a jackass," Sam snapped.

Dean rolled his eyes. "So romantic, Sammy. Jesus, fine." He dribbled lube over two fingers and nudged Sam's legs apart with his knees.

Despite his brave act, Sam was shaking, fine little shivers all over that made Dean's breath catch. Was he seriously doing that on purpose? Dean mentally tipped his hat to the man, but was a little disconcerted to learn that Sam was this good of an actor.

"Shhh," he said, rubbing Sam's back with his clean hand as he circled his hole with the other. Sam still jumped a little when Dean slid the first fingertip in, and that shouldn't have been intoxicating.

"Shhhhh," he said again, softer, thrusting just that fingertip in and out, working the lube around. When he added more lube and slipped the finger in up to the second knuckle, Sam made a small sound into the pillow.

"Okay, Sam?" Dean asked quietly.

Sam exhaled and then nodded, face still pressed to the pillow. The sight of his bared neck brought up a surprising swell of tenderness in Dean. He stroked the hair at Sam's nape once with his clean hand.

For the next few minutes, the only sounds were small ones magnified by the close space and yellow light. Rustle of cloth, Sam's breath on the pillow, snick of the lube cap. Sharp inhale when Dean brought his finger, cold with fresh lube, to Sam's entrance. He seemed to be sensitive tonight, far more sensitive than usual; the barest touch caused some visible or audible reaction, even if it was just a sigh. Dean moved forward carefully.

He eased his finger in up to the second knuckle again and felt Sam's muscles tighten around it. "Gotta relax, Sammy. Easier if you relax. Come on, try."

Sam bit his lip and exhaled. All at once, the resistance gave way. Sam's body seemed almost to suck him in, suddenly wrapping around his finger hot and tight. Dean worked more lube in, way more than Sam ever needed but barely enough to keep him still now, crooking his finger to brush Sam's prostate, watching Sam's back rise and fall with his breathing. That was a part of him, disappearing inside Sam. It was obscene and incredible.

Dean slicked up a second finger and pressed them together against Sam's hole. Another small, bitten off sound fell into the pillow. Tongue between his teeth, away in some space of concentration he hadn't even noticed himself entering, Dean circled with his fingers and pushed just so.

Slippery heat clamped down on him. As he stretched and scissored and stroked, Dean realized a bit dazedly that he was actually afraid of hurting Sam. Sam, who was still oversensitive, his breaths still shaky, responsive in a way Dean had never seen before. If he was faking it, it was one hell of an act. Dean rubbed Sam's back through it, and his palm came away damp with sweat.

An unaccustomed sense of freakout was creeping in upon Dean. Jesus, was he hurting Sam? Was Sam hurt, period? Nothing looked wrong. He was maybe a bit pinker than he should have been, but he didn't look _injured;_ and Dean had been careful, more and more careful at every step.

"I'm okay." Sam's voice broke some spell that had been binding the silence together. "I'm okay, Dean. Just do it."

Sam's eyes were glazed with arousal, the flush in his cheek vivid against the bleached white of the pillow. He took a breath and rolled his shoulders in some incredible way that made his muscles ripple down his back. "Dean, please."

Trailing tacky fingers along the cleft Sam's ass, Dean propped himself on his side to get level with Sam's eyes. "One more finger." He leaned in to work Sam's mouth open; Sam made a needy noise and tried to chase Dean's tongue when Dean pulled away. "One more. Don't want to hurt you."

"I want it to hurt," said Sam.

Dean couldn't tell whether the queasy pulse that went through his belly was nausea or intense desire. He did know that his cock went from half-hard to heavy and full.

"You want it hard? Want me to push you into the mattress and pull your stupid hair and mark you up?"

Sam's pupils dilated. "Yeah."

"Well, too bad. That's not how it's going to be."

Dean knelt behind Sam again, pressing Sam's thighs apart with his knees. He poured more lube directly on Sam's crack, getting a startled yelp at the cold, worked it into Sam's body until Sam was leaking with it, rolled on a condom, and slicked himself up. One hand braced on the mattress beside Sam's shoulder, the other on Sam's hip, he positioned himself against Sam's opening.

With his eyes shut and Sam's scent in his nose, Dean tried to believe that this was the first time he'd ever been here and the first time Sam had ever let someone bring him to this point. He couldn't do it. The fantasy just didn't have that kind of grip on him. He _was_ gripped by the desire to wipe away Carl Lawson, and stupid drunken frat boys, and whomever Sam's body found first when it got out of Hell whether male or female, to obliterate them all and replace them with something better and new.

"Sam," Dean said, and figured Sam would get the idea. He moved.

Sam cried out as the head of Dean's cock pushed past the first tightness. Dean mouthed over the line of Sam's shoulder, more a drag of teeth than a kiss. He flexed his hips, tried to give Sam time to adjust and open to him, but there were heat and pressure on his cock and Sam was squirming under him with little shocks running through his muscles and making these little _noises_ and holy hell. The clench around his cock somehow translated into a fist squeezing his brain.

"Jesus, that's tight. How are you even— God, Sam—"

"Dean." Sam's voice was ruined. _He hates having his back exposed,_ Dean thought. _He hates it so much that it turns him on at the main._

"Shhh." Dean laced the fingers of one of his hands through one of Sam's as he found a rhythm, slow, pushing all the way forward and drawing all the way back. "I've got you. You know I've got you."

It didn't last long. Sam was strung out, grew more strung out the longer Dean whispered random shit over his back and touched him like a fragile thing. He'd probably been on the edge for an hour before Dean got there, and now he was alternately straining and melting back into the penetration. Dean felt the pleasure drawing up inside him into a sharp edge and waited with a bizarre calm for it to cut him in two.

Hot muscle bore down around Dean's cock and Sam came warm over Dean's fingers. Dean wound his arms around him, holding him together as he shook.

He followed a minute or so later. His climax took him almost by surprise. Sam had been coming down as Dean fucked him through it, his breathing evening out, body clenching with less and less violence, sex sounds slipping away into hiccoughs. Dean just tipped over. He pulsed warm into the condom as Sam's muscles milked him, and watched a drop of sweat fall from his face onto Sam's neck. He kissed it off.

Head fuzzy and clear at the same time, he pulled out and rolled Sam over.

Yeah. Sam had let Dean mess him up.

After a few seconds for Dean to admire his handiwork and both of them to get their breath back, Sam's hand disappeared off the horizon of the bed and reappeared with a box of tissues. Sam pulled out a wad for himself and thrust the box into Dean's chest.

Dean knew without looking that it was past midnight. He also knew that two pounds of Taco Bell was spoiling on the kitchenette table, but couldn't find it in himself to care. Wordlessly, Dean retrieved the comforter while Sam dealt with the sheet, and they fell into the uncommon but pretty well rehearsed ritual of preparing to sleep in the same bed. Dean borrowed Sam's knife from the night stand to stash under his pillow. Sam had come all over the other one, but they were Winchesters, so he simply turned the thing upside-down and buried his head in it with a small sigh.

They'd been lying on their backs and watching a crane fly ram itself into the ceiling repeatedly for a while when Dean remembered that there was something he'd been meaning to ask.

"Dude, what in the name of Tim Curry's curlies was that?"

"Um." Dean could hear the frown in Sam's voice. "You seemed really hung up on the virgin thing, so…."

"Not _that._ You seemed…" Images of Sam clawing at the mattress and pushing back on Dean's cock spilled through Dean's brain. "…kind of sensitive."

"Figging," Sam said.

"Excuse me?"

"Figging. It's, um, you use ginger."

Dean paused before responding. "You shook ginger up there?"

"What? Oh. Oh! No, not, like, ground ginger. Raw ginger."

"How exactly is that better, Betty Crocker?"

Sam wrinkled his nose and frowned. "Dude, look. You take a piece of ginger, you carve it into a butt plug, and you stick it up your ass. The volatile oils inflame the skin and make you really sensitive. And, apparently, kind of swollen. It's not that weird; it's really common."

Dean stared at him. "You shoved kitchen ingredients up your butt to try to give me the virgin experience. Wow. Okay." He lowered himself back to the mattress and looked at the ceiling some more. "Thanks," he offered up.

Sam half snorted, half laughed. "You're welcome. I think."

"Next time you do that, give me a little warning, huh?"

"Yeah, sure. Not sure I'll do it again. It was… intense."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "That was the impression I got, yeah."

They lay there for a while, heads side by side.

"Was it what you'd imagined?" Sam asked.

Dean considered it. "Not really," he confessed. Sam's face fell a little, and Dean tried to explain himself. "I mean, it was great. Fucking alarming, with whatever you did to yourself, I thought I'd grown spikes on my dick or something, but great. But it was more knowing that you'd, you know, do this, than the thought of…." He waved a hand in a vaguely explanatory way.

Sam was silent for several drowsy breaths, and Dean started to think he'd actually gone to sleep on the moment. Then he twisted, somehow curling his massive form so that his head ended up half on the defiled pillow and half on Dean's pecs and said, "That was beautiful, Dean. Hold me."

Dean flicked his ear. "Bitch."

"Jerk."

"Asswipe."

"Snotnuts."

"Goatfucker."

"Goat-fuckee."

A few beats. "Manwhore."

Sam shifted, scrunching the pillow and stealing part of the blanket. "Gun-slut," he said, voice muffled.

"Counselor Troi," Dean fired back.

"Soap-watcher," Sam returned.

"Fucking liar."

"Bad liar."

"Cocksucker."

"Jackass."

"Douchecanoe."

"Prick."

Silence, warm breathing. "Brat," said Dean softy.

He waited a few for an answer, but there was only Sam's head on his chest, breath slow and regular. Dean worked his right foot out from under the blankets and shut his eyes.

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><p>~*FINIS*~<p>

_Crossposted to bottom_sammy_


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